


The Green Inferno

by GoldenClover



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Gloucester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:48:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5196203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenClover/pseuds/GoldenClover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a quick one-shot about Snafu on Gloucester.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Green Inferno

**Author's Note:**

> Snafu's pov. Also, I apologize for all racial slurs (the word 'Japs' is mentioned), as this is going on in Snafu's head

You trudge through the wild, green jungle and take a long drag of your cigarette, the smoke billowing from your nostrils like some kind of dragon. You’re twenty one years old and have been in this hell for no more than a week now. There is a dull exhaustion about you, and you don’t know how much more of this bullshit you can take. On the outside, you come across as arrogant, sarcastic, and let’s face it, a little bit insane; but deep down, you’re just a kid, you all are. All you want is to go home, where it’s safe and warm, and the food is good, and, you hate to admit it to yourself, but your maman is there to make everything right. you repeat in your head like a silent mantra. _I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home I want to go home_. But there’ll be no more of that. You get that out of your head, boy. No more home-cooked Gumbo, no more humid nights spent in the swamps, no more soft words, half-spoken in French, half in English. Uh-uh, there wasn’t going to be any of that ever again, so you’d better just toughen up, boo, and make yourself hard and cold; that’s the only way to survive in this harsh new world. You’re no more than a boy, forced to become a man before you were ready.

 That night, you and Burgie sit in your shared foxhole, speaking in muted whispers. You speak of nothing and everything. You speak of Cape Gloucester. You speak of your futures (if you even have a future). You speak of home. “I got a little brother back home” Burgie murmurs in his Texas twang “His name’s Joseph Dalton, but we call him J.D. He’s in the Army.” You snort at that. “Army, huh?” you stretch your arms lazily “Army don’t count for shit.” Burgie shakes his head “You’re a piece of work, Shelton.” Then you both curl up in your wet, muddy foxhole and soon drift off into a troubled sleep.

 When you were younger, you used to dream of all kinds of things. Flying, being chased, having a million dollars, you name it. But now your dreams are peppered with explosions and death and blood. All your terrors in the waking world come to haunt you, even in your sleep. You dream of your buddy, Jimmy, who was killed by a sniper bullet not three days ago. You dream of bombs exploding in the jungle, killing all your buddies. You dream of angry Japs, coming after you with bayonets and guns and bombs and grenades. But every once in awhile, you dream of happier days; like helping your maman with the cooking, or playing with your cousins during the local celebration of Mardis Gras. But these dreams are few and far between, a merciful break from the nightmares.

  
 You crouch behind a rock, fingers clutching to your rifle for dear life, your mind silently begging _please god don’t kill me don’t kill me I’m not ready to die papa please save me mama please please protect me oh god please let this be a dream_. But of course, there’s no papa, no mama, to save you now. And this sure as hell ain’t no dream. The only people you can rely on now are yourself and your buddies. You sit, hunched, half-waiting for some fucking Jap to come out of nowhere and shoot you in the goddamn head or drive the razor-sharp blade of his bayonet into the soft skin of your stomach, but you continue to remain unseen. This safety can only last for so long. Soon, you will be back in the hell that is Cape Gloucester.


End file.
